


Specifically Focused

by SadistSenpai



Series: Id and Ego [2]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Godly Intervention (for boning), M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Malpractice, Other, Primus made us do it, Primus' favourite OC is Megatron, Someone Help Poor Rung, dubcon, robot pregnancy, wet sloppy robot sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:27:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25133875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadistSenpai/pseuds/SadistSenpai
Summary: Rung's unusual circumstances are getting worse. Megatron, for all his strength, can't hold out against that hypnotic Id either.
Relationships: Megatron/Rung (Transformers), Rung/Skids (Transformers), Rung/Whirl (Transformers)
Series: Id and Ego [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820557
Comments: 9
Kudos: 73





	Specifically Focused

He’s been having curious dreams as of late.

He feels immense, larger than he ever could be, raising his hand to sort stars. They drift between his fingers like marbles upon a small table, as ships cross the vast tracts of space around him. Everything drifts away slowly, spreading further and further out until he can no longer reach. Ships fly from his armor, disappearing into the distance. 

He does not see it but, in the way one tends to understand their own subthoughts when dreaming, he knows they will not return. 

He finds himself occupying a lonely existence, watching as everything drifts past. He picks at his armor, repurposing metal and minerals with stones from his own chest, burying the tiny shards in his surface and waiting for them to bloom. But they never rise and, no matter how many he tries to make, he knows they won’t. He doesn’t have enough data for them to be a complete being. He  _ needs  _ that data, the history and memories of those that should have come back long ago, but they’re all gone now. 

He tilts his palm, peering at Fortress Maximus. He looks up at him, red optics wide, as code seeps from his panels to brighten the millions of buried gemstones below. It’s a good start, he supposes, but he’ll need more. 

In his other hand, the Lost Light is tilted. Inside are hundreds of Sparks, each with a history that stretches out further and further every day, ready to be implemented. He merely needs to access it.

Another set of red optics glance up at him through the window, practically  _ bursting  _ with data. 

That one, he thinks, will be the  _ culmination  _ of his search. 

\--

Whirl seems distracted today. 

Well, more distracted than he usually is. Whirl is never without a fidget or two, especially in times where he is forced to sit. They’ve managed to help get some of that restless energy out with a toy to twirl around his claws or a heavy blanket around his lap but, today, these acts aren’t helping any. 

His optic keeps dimming, a usual indicator of poor sleep. 

“How has your sleep been?” he inquires, segwaying their conversation from the topic of when and where throwing empty cubes at other mechanicals (chiefly Cyclonus) is allowed. “You seem a bit tired.”

“A bit, I guess.” Whirl grumbles, head tilting back. “Been havin’ weird dreams. Kinda vivid. Kept me up a bit.”

“Are they… good dreams?” he asks, carefully scrawling (admittingly unintelligible) notes upon his datapad. 

Whirl’s head tilts forward again, optic narrowing. His head shifts a bit, as if to inspect, and a strange feeling of unease drifts over Rung’s processor. He’s no stranger to the looks his clients give him sometimes: he is a major part of their life, after all, and some react to such a thing differently than others. This particular client flirts plenty but, frankly, he flirts with just about everyone (chiefly Cyclonus, much to Tailgate’s uncertainty). 

“Well, Doc...” Whirl drawls out, kicking a leg out to cross over his lap. “They’ve been grand. I mean, better than the usual sludge. Everyone appreciates a good interface dream, after all.  _ Especially  _ if it’s with someone pretty. And you, Doc, are _ pretty pretty _ . ‘Specially when you’re slung over my berth, mewlin’ like a kitten, stuffed full of spike and wantin’ more.”

His breath, briefly, hitches. 

And Whirl, being Whirl (drawn in by a golden thread, tied in a little bow around his throat), takes that as an admission of agreement. The weighted blanket is tossed away, thudding against his shelf, as a claw knocks his datapad away and pins him against his chair. His panel clicks loose, disobedient (to his upper consciousness, at least), a gush of fluid prepping the way.

It’s a good thing, he supposes, because Whirl hooks one of his legs (they don’t feel like his own, as if the gray of his thigh suddenly changed colour) around his hip and thrusts his spike forward, filling him on one, solid go. No prepwork, no pomp, nothing. He doesn’t know why he expected anything different. He doesn’t know why he ever considered the exact circumstances in which his client would attempt this sort of thing either (he blames his subconscious, the kinky and improper thing that it is). 

It’s hard, fast, and over before he knows it. A couple of dozen thrusts later and he finds himself milking Whirl’s overload, valve squeezing tight to direct transfluid up towards that strange tank of his. It’s a decent amount (fifty ounces, on the dot), but he doesn’t overload in turn. 

Whirl stumbles back, looking blurry. He falls back onto the lounge chair and blinks at the ceiling, as if the lights bearing down on him were of particular offense. Moments pass, as many as it took for him to ravage his therapist, before he sits up and tilts his head. 

“... What were we talkin’ ‘bout again?”

\--

Feeling queasy, he drops a small, golden crystal into the box he set aside for the products of his Incidents.

Maximus' large, red shard glimmers, as if to greet, before he shuts the box and tucks it back into the wall. The panel concealing it is shut tightly, melded in with all the others around it. No one need know of it, nor of the other box of paraphernalia he has hidden on that shelf. But, ah, perhaps he’d be more keen on someone discovering his smut rags than the box of gemstones. 

He should go to Ratchet about this. Coughing up matter is a dangerous thing for Cybertronians, they who are not designed to regurgitate, and coughing up matter as solid and large as this  _ can’t  _ be good. His throat aches, likely scraped up, and, as good as his self-repair systems are, it can only do so much. 

He falls into his bed, amongst the cushions and plush he needs to feel comfortable on that cold, hard slab, and rests a hand over his core. The glass is cool and smooth, as always: and, below that, rests both his Spark (unusually large for his size) and that strange, alien tank. It’s empty now, the statistic only appearing on his HUD if he focuses on it, and the hollowness feels all-consuming.

Another thing he should have Ratchet look at, he supposes. 

But the idea weighs him down into his comfortable, comfortable berth, as if he was tied down by the weight of simple uncertainty. Selfishly, he doesn’t  _ want  _ to go to a medic. He wants this to stop, but the amount of effort he fears lay before him is unappealing. He’s aware that such makes him no better than some of his more difficult clients, those he chides in quiet tones over, but he is only Cybertronian. The appeal of unchanging attitudes is a powerful force. 

Nevertheless, there’s a pattern here. When he interfaces, he produces a crystal. The production (and matter needed for said stone, oddly enough) seems directly tied to whether or not that tank beside his Spark is filled with transfluid. No transfluid, no crystal. Simple enough. 

The problem holds out in the acts that lead to the tank being filled.

He is, somehow,  _ seducing  _ mechanicals. It’s not intentional, perhaps not even wanted (tho’ he will admit to enjoying the acts in a carnal sense, even as his more polite side shrieks in horror), but it is occurring. It’s an occurrence he’s been aware of for quite some time, in fact: he nearly lost his job over someone discovering an Incident, an event that still haunts him. It seemed to happen after a prolonged period of contact with another mechanical, usually in the form of detailed one-on-one processes with someone trying to reinstate themselves into society. 

Whirl, however, had no such process. He was a per-decacycle client, only in close contact with his therapist for a breem and  _ maybe  _ an added half a breem outside of his office. And yet he experienced the vivid dreams that often lead to an Incident, strange influences (unintentional acts, interpreted as flirty: subconscious, tinted gold) spurring them on until they broke down and fragged him. 

Frankly, he’s afraid to leave his room. 

If he’s doing this, and it  _ isn’t  _ a crazy set of coincidences that coincides with unintentional acts, he probably shouldn’t. He doesn’t need to be accidentally seducing his clients, nevermind passerbys in the hallway that he,  _ somehow _ , isn’t in charge of maintaining their mental wellbeing.

His mind briefly considers the idea of many a partner, surrounding him, and the nausea that peaks from the possibility of having to cough up all the shards that could come from such an event is enough to ruin the appeal. His poor throat would be damaged beyond repair. 

He should cancel or reschedule his clients. He should shift to performing therapy through a datapad, putting enough distance between him and his clients that he needn’t worry about hurting them further. He should go to Ratchet and admit that something is wrong, that he needs help, that he’s scared of being torn apart by stones in his throat. He should--

He… he should…

\--

Skids, quite frankly, felt like a drink.

There’s no particular reason for it. His day was fine, his interactions typical, and everything was expected. He simply had a craving today for some energex. Specifically, he had a craving for a  _ Tailgate _ : one shot of energex mixed in fizzy energon, topped in popping candy and with a big, swirly straw. It’s Tailgate’s favourite drink, hence the name. 

It’s a little frou-frou-y, he admits, but it sounds good for a change. 

And so he sidles up to Swerve’s bar and orders his drink, leaning against the bar itself as he waits. The bar is pretty quiet today, he thinks, even if that merely means there’s no fighting going on at the moment. It’s nice. 

An orange hand settles upon his arm.

“Good evening,” Rung greets, looking as typical as ever. He settles onto the stool beside him and waves for Swerve’s attention, that single action putting his order in. A  _ Rung _ , a silvershake with popping energon pearls and a big straw. It’s one of two drinks on the menu that doesn’t have energex in it; he doesn’t see the appeal personally but, hey, good for Rung for not wanting to fall to temptation or sin or whatever. “How was your day?”

“Quiet,” he says, shrugging. Rung smiles in that soft, sad way he always does (but something isn’t quite right here, something’s different, but he can’t tell what). “But a good quiet. I guess you’d describe it as intellectually calm. Mentally calm? One of those two.”

His drink is plopped down in front of him and he takes a nice, hearty sip. It’s frou-frou-y, plenty sweet and with barely any bite from the energex, perfect for innocent little Minibots that don’t really do anything except prove how innocent life  _ could  _ be. 

Rung’s drink follows suit a moment later. He finds his gaze drawn to dainty fingers wrapping around the curved glass, lifting the straw to his mouth. That mouth curls around the straw as it sucks a bit of the shake in, with the occasional blob of a pearl passing through. His throat, thinly armored, bobs as he swallows the pearls whole. 

Rung, tho’ he can’t be sure of it (those glasses are  _ thick _ ), seems to catch his gaze. He smiles, something far less sad than usual, and Skids finds himself to be oddly dizzy. Has the therapist always been so…  _ pretty _ ?

“ **Would you mind helping me with something?** ” sweet, seemingly-innocent Rung inquired, that hand that never left his arm curling into a loose fist. It feels strangely heavy there, strangely warm, strange in so many fascinating ways. It feels like soft threads, like spider’s silk, that drapes and catches in seams. 

His head, unbidden, nods. 

\--

“Slow-- slow down, doc.”

Rung seems to take no mind to his words. His head slides down farther, mouth stretched wide over his spike. He’s no size queen, nor one to dwell on the differences in scale, but Rung is so  _ small  _ and his mouth hadn’t looked wide enough to take in anything more than a straw, nevermind someone’s spike. 

But here they are, tucked in a closet, with the ship’s resident therapist running his glossa over his spike. And damn, he is  _ good  _ at this. His head bobs at a varying pace, throat contracting just enough around the tip, glossa flat against his shaft, fingers rubbing at the housing as he bobs up and down. He even suckles at the whole length, soft moans sending vibrations through the entire construct. 

His hand, weakly, grasps at the therapist’s head. He finds it hard to focus, skin tingling like it’s been covered in spider silk (an… odd descriptor, deepset like a subconscious: he must have had a weird experience with spiders at some point), but the sight of Rung swallowing his spike and fingering himself stands strong amongst the wavering walls. 

An urge grips him.

His hand tightens, holding the therapist in place as he thrusts forward. And, gods below, Rung doesn’t have a gag reflex: his throat expands briefly, long enough to take the length pushed in, and the surprised whimper that echoes around his spike feels  _ just as good _ . Feeling emboldened, he thrusts again, again, again. Rung takes each one rather happily, his fingers sloppily rubbing at his anterior node. 

It’s too much.

He tries to draw out to come on Rung’s face, as is polite (Cybertronians could eat many soft metals, yes, but transfluid had a weird reaction with the energon in their tank: plus, it didn’t taste very good), but Rung grasps his hips with a strength greater than he’d assume possible for someone who seems incapable of lifting anything more than a pillow. And thus he watches as Rung swallows splurge after splurge of transfluid, throat bobbing with every dutiful swallow. 

He pulls back to kiss the softening tip of Skid’s spike, a smile as happy as he’s ever seen on his pretty little face. His glasses, knocked askew, expose bright, shimmering golden optics. 

“ **Thank you,** ” Rung says, sounding strange. “ **That’s** **_just_ ** **what I needed** .”

\--

And, a day later, Rung awakes with a coughing start. 

He falls from his berth to crash on the floor, grasping his throat as it constricts. He coughs and coughs and coughs and, as typical, the process takes a while before,  _ finally _ , he manages to get it up. 

The stone is yellow this time around. It’s the size of a finger joint and, annoyingly, rather jagged. His throat aches. 

It goes into the box with the others. They all glimmer in greeting, locked back into darkness as he closes the box. His Id moans sadly, as if expecting that they deserve a spot on his shelf in plain view. 

He doesn’t remember having intercourse with  _ anyone _ . He doesn’t remember much of the last day, other than taking it easy. He cuddled in his berth, read a bit, relaxed, set up his sessions for long-distance work--

A brief shock of fear runs through him. He grasps his datapad and goes through it, searching for his last set of notes. And, much to his horror, he finds the edits he made to his schedule reversed, allowing each and every one of his clients to see him in person. He even has a few new appointments, fit in due to ‘emergencies.’ Skids, Ultra Magnus, Cyclonus,  _ Megatron…  _ none of which need him at the moment, all stable enough to stick to their schedule. 

( He… he has  _ four  _ appointments scheduled with Megatron. A  _ whole day _ is dedicated to the former warlord. )

Furious (with himself), he deletes each one and notifies the mechanicals in question of his mistake, apologizing for them over the communication network. They seem apologetic in turn (tho’ Skids stutters oddly), but Megatron never replies. He presumes him to be busy as a captain can be and, frankly, he’s fine without a confirmation. He can always turn him away at the door. 

( Furious, with himself, his Id roils. )

\--

A day or two later, he’s cleaning his office from another halved session (to try and stave off the effect) when a knock interrupts him. He tucks away his more private datapads and rises to let his visitor in. “Please come in! I only have a moment or two, but--”

Megatron, being a tiny bit larger than the door itself, leans down. He finds his voice fading, a sudden weakness overtaking his knees. The old warlord seems to take that as an invitation in and strides within. 

“You wanted to see me?” the tank inquires, red optics bright against his gunmetal gray frame. “It must be urgent, to have blocked off _ four breems _ for it. Unless this is some particular way to try and make a breakthrough and you simply are not communicating such with me.”

“Ah...” his voice returns, shuddering. “My apologies. I was having trouble scheduling the other day and took on a few too many clients. If you’d prefer, we can reschedule. If, ah, that’s needed.”

Megatron took a moment to ponder. And, gods below, he found himself wondering how that mind ticked (as he did so often, but this was tinged in something strictly unprofessional). “If you do not mind, I  _ would  _ like to talk with you briefly. I… am having a bit of trouble and could use some advice.”

_ I don’t have the time, sorry.  _ He wants to say, rude as that might be. He doesn’t like this, any of this, because the want is building and he doesn’t trust the circumstances that lead up to this. It’s a horrible thing, to not trust one’s self, but his Id is practically drooling at the sight of the old warlord. 

“ **Of course** ,” he says instead. “ **I always have time for those who need it.** ”

_ Dammit _ .

“It’s nothing dire.” Megatron settles upon the lounge as he goes to close the door (locking it, tho’ that’s against his personal protocol). “I’ve just been having trouble with Rodimus again. He isn’t handling the concept of ‘co-captaining’ very well. I don’t wish to push him but, quite frankly, I don’t have time to deal with his complaining. Optimus’ leadership style may have pandered to his insecurities more but mine certainly does not, even  _ when  _ I try to be less of a dictator about it.”

“Rodimus has his ego, as do you.” he settles beside the tank (against protocol, against protocol, _ get  _ **_away_ ** _ from him-- _ ). “This is to be expected. Finding a middle ground will take longer than you’re allowing it to, especially for someone who doesn’t handle this sort of change particularly well. Have you considered a per-decacycle meeting to discuss things with him on a strictly professional basis? That way you can save everything you feel for one event, rather than spreading it out in front of the crew.”

“Perhaps. I don’t think he’d adhere to such a thing, quite frankly, and I have no interest in daily meetings. Perhaps I’m being too harsh with him but I do not know if I can be kinder without falling to his whims. He’s… being a bit bratty, frankly.”

“And your opinions are valid, just as his are. If you two keep pushing, something will give: and I imagine such will be the crew, reacting to the imbalance of power. They might start looking more to Ultra Magnus and you and I  _ both  _ know he can’t handle that sort of power. He doesn’t like being a leader anymore than you like admitting that you have to listen to someone.”

He’s being too forward.

But Megatron laughs, as if the very concept of ruining his own professional advice was fine and dandy. “How staunch of you! You should make an effort to be this bold typically. It gets things done faster.”

He finds himself flushing, an act of great amusement to the Warlord. The tank, seemingly satisfied, rises from his seat to head for the door. Relief and fear flood, dual emotions twisting around until he finds his arm raised out to grasp Megatron’s arm. 

“Wait,” he says, finding his breath slipping from his chest. “Please, just… wait a moment. I… I ne **ed a bit of help with something.** ”

Megatron’s optics narrow. Then, suddenly, they widen: his face reacts in confusion as his body turns to face the therapist, wrapping him in golden strings, an immense hand splaying over the round window of the smaller mechanical’s spark chamber. He takes a step back (Megatron pushing him, but only in the way two things dragged along by the same current can) and the back of his legs hits the lounge chair. 

He falls back upon it, Megatron’s knee coming to rest beside him. An enormous hand strokes along his side, toying with sensitive seams (all of them, instinctively knowing which ones he liked), as breathless gasps fill the room. There’s a feeling of this all being staged, of a puppeteer above, but the pleasure is real. He’s too sensitive.

His panel clicks open and falls to the wayside, spilling opalescent lubricant out. Megatron’s finger slides down his hip to stroke his node, teasing the opening with the width of two digits. The old Warlord seems to hitch on a breath, steam gathering under his plating: he has not been touched, but he won’t need to be. This spell will do everything for him.

“What--” Megatron gasps, his optics flicking from his unlocked panel to the open valve that his fingers are delving into. “What  _ is  _ this?”

Relief, horrible horrible relief, floods. Megatron isn’t mindless yet. Megatron’s expressions, while clearly interested (he imagines the old Warlord doesn’t have many berth partners either), reflect a confusion that proves some strange immunity. He’s strung up in gold, limbs shifting, but his mind has not fallen yet. 

“I’m sorry,” he heaves, in between the aching moans as his valve is stretched out. Those fingers are so  _ wide _ , pitted in scars that he feels against his nodes. “I don’t… I don’t  _ know  _ what this is but it  _ keeps happening _ . I’m so  **sorry** . I can’t… I can’t  _ fight  _ it.  **_Ah_ ** !”

Megatron’s hand curls, scraping against a bundle of nodes. His hips jerk out, a hand falling from grasping the edge of his glass front to wrap around the Warlord’s wrist, riding him. A soft beg, sounding too much like himself, echoes in his chest. And Megatron, sweet Megatron, obeys and adds another finger, thrusting his hand in and out. 

His spike perks, the red biolights and the mod holding it stiff catching his eye. 

( A  **knotting mod** . He has a  _ knotting mod _ . So perfect, so  **perfect** ! )

“I-- I want...” Megatron stutters, his other hand reaching down to stroke his own spike. His vents hiss, steam coiling out, but his expression looks more perplexed than anything. “I’ve… seen something  _ like  _ this in organics, as part of their reproductive cycle, but-- why,  _ why  _ would you have a  _ heat cycle _ ? What  _ purpose  _ would it serve?”

“I don’t-- I don’t know.” his head falls back, glasses falling loose. Concerned over their safety, he removes them (with an absolutely  _ sodden  _ hand, which will leave horrible stains) and stows them in subspace. “It certainly does  _ something  _ to me. I always end up coughing up material afterwar--  _ oh _ !!”

Megatron’s hand grinds against his anterior node, his fingers buried deep enough to scrape against deepset nodes. The old warlord’s hand slips out (a brief shining hope that, maybe,  _ maybe  _ Megatron fought off the desire) and braces against the berth, lubricant leaving an oilslick shine upon his plain, silver frame. 

His hope that Megatron broke free is quickly dashed when the old warlord carefully lifts his hips in one large hand and lines himself up, red optics flicking from the point of contact to his unwitting partner’s face. His face finally shows some modem of pleasure as he slides in, making small, hitching thrusts to stretch what hasn’t been stretched fully yet. His spike is relatively simple, with flat panels and a simple indent around the jointing, but the head is wide and flared and it  _ grinds  _ against his nodes as it’s pushed further and further into him. 

“I’m sorry,” Megatron groans, adjusting his hold on the therapist. “I would have stretched you more, but I can’t--”

“It’s alright.” a small, shaking orange hand settles on the tank’s chest, catching on the decorative swirl. “It’s… not something you can control. We’re just along for the ride now.”

Megatron hisses, his hips jutting forward (out of rhythm) to seat himself further, bottoming out. The small bulge at the base of his spike was tricky to get in, swelling even now, and the thought of it expanding fully (sealing him off, keeping every drop inside) sends a chill down his already trembling spine. There’s an alien appeal to that, matching to the obsession his Id has with transfluid and to Megatron’s note of this resembling an organic heat cycle. This isn’t a common Cybertronian desire. 

His Id has odd tastes. 

Nevertheless, those tastes are what have locked them together in this act. And, as much as he has to complain about it, there’s no denying this feels good. Megatron’s spike isn’t as big as Fortress Maximus’, simply because he’s not as enormous as the Warden, but the shape and sheer skill the old Warlord shows in every long, measured thrust makes up for it. He strikes that node bundle at the back of his valve and that little aperture that leads to that strange tank with every thrust, sending sparks up his frame.

Soft moans and hitching gasps fill the air, paired to groans and the hissing of vents. Megatron leans over him, his elbow balancing beside his head, as he grasps his thin pair of hips and pulls them to meet his thrusts. Were it not for the calculated way in which Megatron’s optics glanced around, he’d assume him to be lost to the heat of things. 

His hips catch on the swelling base, pulling out with an audible  _ pop _ . The sudden stretch causes a gasp to catch in his throat; the rim of his valve aches, a pain that reminds him of what’s to come. If they’re not careful, he might rip. 

Megatron, thankfully, is relatively careful. He pushes back in and keeps his thrusts shallower, never allowing the widest part of the spike to come out. One might assume such might make this less appealing, with his thrusts never stroking in and out, but the constant grind against his nodes makes up for it. 

His own hand reaches down to rub his anterior node, stroking it until it perks through his spread labia. Megatron’s gaze catches that action, drawn in by the wantonness, and he finds himself with an odd, pleased smile. He likes this attention. He likes being looked at so wonderfully, like he’s the most important creature in creation: he likes that this sort of act, while easy to forget due to that curious curse of his, will imprint upon the subconscious, leading to dreams and feelings a plenty. 

In a way, this will be  _ remembered _ . 

Megatron’s breath catches, his spike shoving into that aperture in the back of his valve. The tip batters it open and his knot inflates fully, locking them together as his transfluid floods out. 

In the midst of his own overload (signalled by a bent spine and a gasp, limbs jerking out to wrap around the larger mech), he notes (in delight) as the tank fills, transfluid sloshing as the numeric attached to it rises. 50 ounces, 60 ounces,  _ 80  _ ounces--

Megatron, carefully, clambers upon the berth. He sets them both onto their sides, a thin leg slung over his own as more transfluid pumps in. Steam rises from his mouth as he heaves fresh air through his vents, red optics locked on his small partner as he weakly paws at his frame.

Rung breaks the silence. “That… that took us _ half a breem _ . I had scheduled you for  _ four _ . Oh, Primus below, this isn’t  _ done _ .”

Megatron groans, feeling golden threads grow taunt once more. 

\--

Megatron’s hand is heavy upon his back, providing a sense of stability as he coughs up another bundle of crystals. 

Ratchet was kind enough to provide a bucket. The medic had half an optic on him from where he was standing, carefully glancing at one of the little crystals under a microscope. These ones are small and red, numerous as can be. He’s lost track of how many he’s horked up and, quite frankly, it’s probably best not to focus on the numbers.

“Well, congrats.” Ratchet says, as calm as ever. “It’s a Photonic Crystal. Probably one of the highest quality ones I’ve seen, at least: the internal deformations are unique to each stone and the colour is pretty vibrant. They’re all Ferrum-Negative.”

“They match my spark-type.” Megatron states, carefully swapping out the full bucket for an empty one. The bucket is slid to settle beside the two other buckets, similarly full. Rung groans, throat aching and frame just  _ done  _ with all of this. “So they  _ definitely  _ came from our interfacing?”

“That’s what the data says.” Ratchet shrugs and goes to gather up the buckets, sealing them off and setting them aside. “Plant these guys in the dust of an energon-rich planet and you’ll have sparks form. Guess that makes you two  _ parents _ .  **Mazel Tov.** ”

And Rung, in between desperately chugging energon mixed with an extra load of self-repair nanites for his throat, wonders if asking Chromedome to remove parts of his subconscious would be worth the trouble. 

( His Id practically  _ purrs _ , lifting his head to nuzzle against the old Warlord, pleased as punch. )

**Author's Note:**

> The moral of the story is don't have a varied life, because God will want to fuck you and use your memories to make successful babies.


End file.
